


The Third Peverell

by subwaywall



Series: Swan Song [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood Magic, Blood and Gore, Broken Draco Malfoy, Broken wand, Cellist, Classical Music, Completed, Death Eaters, Deathly Hallows, Deepthroating, Draco & Hermione Friendship, Draco plays cello, Dubious Morality, Evil Lucius, F/M, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, Gay, Good Slytherins, Hermione and Draco become friends, Hermione and Draco protect Astoria, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Inspired by Music, LGBTQ Character, Light Bondage, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Pansy plays violin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Hermione, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Sacrifice, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Punishment, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, The Golden Trio, The Silver Trio - Freeform, Torture, Violent Sex, about as non consensual as it gets, almost incest, badass Hermione, based more on the movie version, blindfolding, brave Draco, inspired by Sia, might be a sequel, poor communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-11 23:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11725170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywall/pseuds/subwaywall
Summary: When the brave thing to do is to fight, he runs. When the brave thing to do is to run, he stands his ground. But when he's faced with more pain than Draco Malfoy's ever imagined, he does the only thing he can.He takes it.





	The Third Peverell

**Author's Note:**

> I want to be abundantly clear that I don't recommend you reading this if you have personal trauma. I wrote this because it was in my head. I posted it because I want to hear feedback and I want to make my writing better. 
> 
> While the contents described are merely my imagination, I did do my utmost to reflect thoughts and feelings that are real, vulnerable, and genuine. It's first person because I couldn't write it any other way, but I can't say I can explain why. 
> 
> This story involves rape, torture, forced incest (Bellatrix/Draco), and the threat of father son incest (it doesn't actually happen, but still), as told from the perspective of a victim. If any of these things makes you uncomfortable, please don't read it. 
> 
> Please heed my warning. Thanks for reading, and thanks to my wonderful editor ByCandlelight (she's my sister, pretty cool, and a great writer... this is her account: [ByCandlelight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ByCandlelight/pseuds/ByCandlelight))
> 
> Inspired by [ Breathe Me by Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFGvmrJ5rjM) and [ Angel by the Wings Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXfLirBwBKY) and [ Le Cygne by Saint Saens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VxmaZFms_E)  
> -sww

**_Help, I have done it again.  
I have been here many times before--_ **

It was an easy run, compared to what the three of us had been doing. We’d got it down to an art: I’d drop in for a visit with Astoria, and  Granger would wait just outside the manor to report back to the Order. What better way to fight for it than to live in the home where I always have and report what the Dark Lord plans? The danger of being caught looms, but it looms as if it is some far away prospect. If we were caught, I would have no way to protect them. But it will never come to that.

Welcome to my memories. This is how it begins.

As soon as the Death Eaters find me in the study, I know that they have found us out. I am not supposed to be here. I run anyway, but catching me is effortless. How foolish I was to think I was clever. This is the result.

I know they have Astoria and Granger. My vision isn’t working well, but I hear Astoria to my right, stifling her sobs. She has always been brave, much braver than me. But she cares for me, anyway.

Hermione is to my left. She is brave, too, but not my friend. She is my associate by necessity. Look where it’s got her.

A pair of arms seize me and a wand is held to my throat. I do not risk moving, or even breathing too loudly. Instead, I slump to the floor. My legs don’t support me anymore.

I’m dizzy, but I look up and I see a figure in black. They all wear masks--they are Death Eaters, after all--but I know who they are. Their masks don’t hide their voices, how they breathe, their smells. I have always had a fine nose. Now is not the time to consider it; I’d rather not know who kills me, anyway.

I wonder if it will be my father.

I consider that, if we are very lucky, we are as good as dead.

The voice of the first Death Eater shakes me from my stupor. I ignore the welt on the side of my head and the pain of a cracked rib, and I listen.

“Take the girls to the study,” he hisses. I would recognize that voice anywhere.

It almost surprises me that I too am not grabbed and taken to the study, but I suppose I am a traitor, which is worse. A traitor to my father.

He apparently agrees. “The others,” he mutters, “are not so despicable as you. You took an oath to the Dark Lord to protect your family. You broke it.”

I do not tell him that it was an oath I had no intention of keeping. My only regret is that it will hurt my mother.

“You care for your friends, yes?” he asks.

I nod my head. I do not specify that Hermione is not my friend. I do not specify that I see Astoria as my sister, and I would rather die than let her suffer. I would rather kill her than let her suffer.

“Look at me when I talk to you, boy,” the voice spits. I do not look at him where I know his eyes would be, piercing blue, if a shroud did not surround his face.

I don’t look up. I know it’s petty, but I refuse anyway. I know I won’t be able to much longer.

 _Crucio,_ he says, and I barely hear the word or even the shrieking from my throat. It is over before it begins, but I look him in the eye, now.

“Better,” he says. The Death Eater with a wand at my throat backs up. She knows she is not needed; I will not run.

“I will make you a deal, Draco,” says the voice, “One that is not under my control. It has been offered to you out of… a sort of mercy, I suppose.”

I almost smile. Almost.

“The Dark Lord is thankful for your family’s hospitality, after all.”

I smile, now, bitterly. “You mean your hospitality.”

He inclines his head. “You might consider death more of a mercy. But in this process, you will satisfy the curiosity of a few of my dear friends.”

I’m not curious. I never thought we’d be caught, but I knew all along that if we were, I’d have to watch them suffer. Maybe they’d make me kill Astoria myself. Knowing me, I’d do it. I have no spine, and maybe it would be better that way.

“Listen, now. You will do as you are told by your captors. No matter how demeaning or repulsive.”

“That’s not a deal; I don’t have a choice,” I reply. It is not brave, because I have nothing to lose. “A deal would be that I can go back to Hogwarts and finish the task assigned to me in exchange for clemency. Or if I gave you information in exchange for my freedom.”

He clicks his tongue, “Now, Draco, it’s much too late for that. I’m afraid we’ve got someone else for the Vanishing cabinet, and the Dark Lord is not so foolish as to assume that you will give him information that he does not already possess.”

I nod my head. I knew this, but had to try anyway. The wave of rage that swept through me has dissipated, and all I feel is tiredness.

He takes my silence as attention, and continues, “As for this deal, however, you are wrong. You do have a choice. Whatever you are asked to endure, you can avoid.”

“How?” The question slips out of my lips before I realize it.

“Simply give it to one of your friends. But I know how you care about them, how difficult it would be to watch them suffer--” His voice is mocking; he knows I am a coward and doubts it will be long before I break.

An involuntary chill runs through me. I would prefer to have no choice. Now that I have one, it will hang over me, tempting me. When I beg for the pain to end, I would rather be ignored. I cannot let Astoria suffer any more at the hands of my family. Her mother was killed; her father went mad--I cannot be the cause of her pain.

 And I owe Hermione better, I think. For all the times I called her a mudblood, all the times I hexed her and cursed her and wished internally that she would drop dead. I suppose it’s time I pay her back too.

Otherwise, Harry would never forgive me.

The Death Eater’s mask curves upwards unnaturally and I realize he is smiling. “Yes, they will be safe as long as you are willing to protect them.”

In that moment, I am emotionless. I just feel nausea so intense that I know I will be sick if I unclench the muscles of my stomach. I focus only on keeping my face impassive and not being sick in the middle of the foyer of what was once my house.

“Give me his wand,” says the Death Eater, and another of his kind emerges from behind him and brandishes it. I feel its energy and I want to go to it--

He holds it firmly in both hands, and snaps it in half. It physically pains me.

“Take him to the basement,” the Death Eater says, and then to me: “This is the last time I will see you. Goodbye, Draco.”

“Goodbye, Father,” I reply. A pair of hand seizes my arms and pulls me to my feet. I stumble after the person pulling on me, and she--Bellatrix, I’m sure--pushes me down the stairs of the basement and locks the door firmly behind me.

I’m left to adjust to the darkness. There is too much to think about and too much to feel, and I can do neither. Instead, I do the next best thing. Fumbling around on my hands and knees, I find the cleanest corner of the basement and curl up to go to sleep.

When I wake up, I have no way of knowing if it is morning or night. I do not know how long I have slept, but the room is still impenetrably dark. I know the shape of it, though; no corner of it is unknown to me and that brings me comfort.

I’m afraid of being weak, of being humiliated. I know when they come for me, I will cry and I will beg. There is no point in resisting that. I just need something to focus on, a place to put my mind when everything hurts. It can’t be Harry, even though just imagining being in his arms comforts me.

He kissed my forehead before we left. He told me to stay safe; he held my shoulders so tightly that I was certain I’d come back to him. He probably knows we’ve been caught. He’ll want to come for us, but I hope he doesn’t. Our only hope is if he beats Voldemort, and he can’t do that if he’s afraid for me and for Hermione.

I don’t know how long I will have to wait, but I know it won’t be long. My thoughts come in ragged gasps. They are unclear and illogical and I know I am panicking. Somehow, I am detached from my fear. I watch my chest heave and my hands tremble, but my brain is somewhere else.

 _Good_ , I think.  _Good._

By the time he comes, I am done panicking.

I know that it is Amycus Carrow before I hear his voice. He has an unusual gait, and I can’t see a thing--so I focus on whatever I can hear. Amycus is a bit of an idiot, really. It’s his sister Alecto that’s the creative one.

I hope for my sake that she remains upstairs.

Amycus lights the room with a flick of his wand, and I’m startled by it. I really preferred the dark, but I consider distractedly that this whole thing really isn’t about my comfort.

He says something about starting out easy, and by the end of it he says I’ll ask him for it. The cruciatus curse, I presume.

All the sudden my aloofness is shattered. He shoots me with a stupefy spell, and says, “Pay attention to me when I’m talking, boy.”

I really am tired of getting called ‘boy.’ Although there are worse indecencies.

I pay him the attention that he asks of me. “I assume you’re going to ‘crucio’ me until  _you_ get tired?” I ask, finding it odd that the idea of experiencing unending pain is a little bit relieving compared to the other options. Death Eaters don’t shy away from all sorts of evil.

I know my aunt Bellatrix, for example, well enough to know that she uses sex as a weapon, a punishment, and a defense depending on her situation. I know myself well enough to know I mustn’t think about it.

Carrow laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound. “You assume correctly,” he says, and cracks his knuckles.

I see his wand moving; my body is shuddering, but my mind is back in third year, when I ran out of my house all the way to Astoria’s and she sang to me; she let me forget my father’s drinking and held me as my body still twitched from the phantom pain of suffering my first cruciatus curse.

 ** _Be my friend, hold me_**  
**_Wrap me up, unfold me_**

I imagine her in the study, her head on Hermione’s shoulder, humming quietly. She is why I must be strong. She’s innocent, so good.

She’s what is right in the world, in her quiet frailty. I must not let her hurt.

My body relaxes, twitching slowly. My throat and mouth taste like iron, and I realize I am bleeding.

 _No matter,_ I think.  _There is no way I will survive this._

A year ago, that would have comforted me. Now, it terrifies me. I must make it back, to protect Astoria; to stop beating around the bush and finally tell Harry that I love him. Life flows through me again, and this time, when Amycus mutters, ‘crucio,’ I feel every second.

There is no description of it. I would tear my own eyes out if only to make it stop, but I have no control over my fingers. I shudder, and scream, because I realize that I mustn’t remember  _I can escape this._

It isn’t about being brave, it’s about doing what’s necessary. Granger is too important to be ruined by this. Astoria must be protected. And me? I think sometimes I deserve it.

My screams fade to mumbles and I can’t think coherently. The pain does not end and does not promise to end, and my muscles grow overtired from clenching. I am flat on the floor and I can’t even feel the pain from biting my cheek.

Amycus takes a deep breath and ends the spell, stepping back and shuddering to himself as if possessed by some unfamiliar energy.

He cracks his knuckles again and smiles, saying, “Much quicker than last time for you to break, Sonny. Tell me, how do you feel?” He wipes his tongue over his teeth and I know he gets off on it, and frankly, that’s just disturbing.

I go to tell him so, but my tongue won’t respond to me. He laughs when I mumble, and my temper gets ahead of me. I lean upwards, gather all the saliva and blood in my mouth that I can, and spit at his feet.

He’s not creative enough to break me, but Alecto will come tomorrow.

At dusk, food appears on the small work table. The strange lighting of the room makes it impossible to know the time, but several hours have passed since Amycus left. I spent the time pacing, thinking, and trying to scrape the grime from under my fingernails. It didn’t work very well.

I eat slowly, meticulously. It hurts my teeth to chew, and the food sits heavily in my stomach, but I know I must eat. If I die too soon, they’ll find other means of entertainment.

It’s important to be practical about these things.

I find a rag in a corner, and I do my best to rub the dried and drying sweat from my body. Who knew there were so many nerves in teeth? I didn’t.

When it’s late enough that I consider I might sleep, I lie down and try not to think. God knows I’ll have plenty of time, tomorrow.

I try to sleep, but I keep shivering. So I pretend that the shivers are from when I was thirteen, and that my head is on Astoria’s lap again. She strokes my hair and sings to me, and I swear I can hear her voice.

I drift off to sleep and do not dream. For that, I’m beyond thankful.

In the morning, I don’t wake up immediately. I only open my eyes once sense someone standing over me. By the smell alone, I can tell it’s Amycus--cheap aftershave and mud accosts me.

Lovely.

His sister Alecto is behind him, by the work bench. She dumps breakfast onto it and says, “He’s a little sleepy, apparently. Better eat up, Buttercup. We’ll be back soon.”

Amycus grins, and I wince slightly. He has bad breath and I do not look forward to seeing him ‘soon.’

They stomp back up the stairs, and I can hear Amycus’s feet pace above me. Alecto’s gait is much less noticeable, but I’m not fooled. Of the pair, she is far more dangerous. That being said, I hope that Bellatrix is on a very, very long mission.

I eat slowly again, but the bread feels less painful on my stomach. I’m glad there’s not much. I’m hungry but I’d rather not vomit.

I miss--

When I was small, I was sick often and my mother would sit up with me until I felt better. She’d tell me stories, and laugh with me, and wouldn’t pretend that she could make it better. She just was there for me, in a way that was perfect. As if she would never want to be anywhere else.

I always liked the adventure stories. She told me a story about a stable boy who fell in love with the most beautiful girl on the planet. And when she was kidnapped by an evil prince, he followed her across the world. He battled pirates, and the best swordsman in the land, and suffered through the prince’s cruelty. And in the end, he was happy and he’d proven his love.

I never thought the girl had earned it, but I didn’t mind. I’d beg my mother to repeat the story to me, until she had to tell me in whispered amusement that it was a muggle story, and that I couldn’t repeat it. I never asked her where the story came from; I wish I had.

I sit on the small stool by the workbench and wait for Amycus and Alecto to return. This time, I don’t know what will happen to me, but I know it will be worse.

Alecto walks down the stairs first, in hurried steps. She’s excited, which paralyzes me. I won’t let her see my fear, she feeds off of it--I must make her think I’m not scared.

Fuck, I’m terrified. I can’t do another day like yesterday, even if it was only a few hours. I can’t--

I can’t think that way, I realize. The only way I survive is if I remain impassive towards my own well-being. Amycus will hurt me. Alecto will humiliate me. This I know; this, I accept.

Amycus follows more slowly, leaning heavily on his left leg--his right one has been hexed one too many times and no longer holds his full weight.

“Alecto,” I say, “It’s nice to see you. How are you?”  _I’m not scared._

She smiles. “Better, now,” she replies, “I’ve been missing out on the fun.”

I incline my head slightly in agreement.

“Brother, I think your tricks yesterday didn’t quite work well enough,” says Alecto, “He’s still sarcastic.”

Absurdly, I think,  _the day I lose my sarcasm is the day that I give up._ The sarcasm will have to stay, just as surely as the Dark Mark defacing my left arm.

“The thing is,” says Alecto, tapping her wand against the palm of her opposite hand, “When you  _do_ things to people, you make them feel victimized. That’s way too easy.”

Amycus shrugs. “Still fun, though,” he says.

“Quite,” replies Alecto, not quite genuinely. “But this way’s more fun.”

I hold my breath.

“Take off your clothes,” she says, her voice darkening. I realize with a jolt that I understand her purpose. What better way to humiliate me? If she did it herself, I wouldn’t have to participate. I would still have my pride, because I could pretend it wasn’t happening.

“Or what?” I say.

“Draco, I thought we were clear on this,” chides Alecto, “You don’t have to do  _anything,_ at all. Just, there’s one small caveat. The minute you say ‘no’ to anything we want to do to you--or have you do, we go get the lovely Ms. Greengrass, or perhaps Ms. Granger, depending on whom you decide is worth less. And then what do we do, Amycus?”

“We do whatever it is to them that you refused,” says Amycus, dutifully. He isn’t looking at his sister, his eyes are on me and that in and of itself is repulsive.

“So, Mr. Malfoy?” says Alecto. “Would you care to get started?”

If I hesitate--

I don’t hesitate, but I don’t rush, either. I start with my shoes because it is easiest to make myself start there. They come off slowly, and my socks follow, tossed onto the workbench.

The coat comes next--I stand there stiffly, unbending, and I unbutton it slowly and slip it off.

“Don’t fold it,” says Alecto, clearly tiring of my sluggishness. I instead pile the coat on the workbench. I loathe it when my clothes get unnecessarily dirty, even though I’ve been sleeping in these.

I shut off my brain again and automate undoing the buttons of my black shirt. I feel its quality; I revel in it. It really is a beautiful shirt.

It too ends up draped over the workbench. I don’t feel cold, even though the air is cold enough to sting. My skin crackles with an odd sort of electricity--an unpleasant one.

When I move to take off my trousers, it feels like there’s a snake coiled inside my chest, tightening around my lungs.

_Don’t think. Don’t think._

I undo the button, unzip the zipper. They fall to the floor and I step out of them, and I pretend I don’t feel vulnerable in my near-nudity.

“Everything,” says Alecto, when it seems like I won’t complete her order.

I try not to flinch anyway, and slide my hands underneath the waistband and take my pants off, too. The electricity intensifies and I know if I let myself, I would feel shame. But that’s what she wants, and if I have to suffer, I may as well leave her unsatisfied. I don’t have much control left, but I’ll take what I can get.

It rather is unfortunate that Alecto knows me, though. She knows me well enough to understand that I hate three things on earth: dirt, waiting, and indignity.

She vanishes my clothes as soon as they’re gone, and she leads a disappointed Amycus back up the stairs. They’ll be back, I know. I just don’t know how soon.

The dungeon is cold, too, and I’m immediately uncomfortable. While I would not say that discomfort is the worst of all evils, it does wear on a person. Plus, there’s nowhere to sit that isn’t dirty, and even in a basement-dungeon, a Malfoy’s got to have standards.

I resign myself to sitting in the dirt anyway, and I choose the corner I’ve been sleeping in. I loathe how the dust automatically coats whatever it touches, and I preoccupy myself with it because it is easier than considering what will happen when the Carrows return.

When they do, they speak as if I’m not there. For a moment, I don’t mind pretending, but it unnerves me, too.

“I’ve invented a new spell, Brother,” says Alecto, and I have every reason to believe her. “I think we’ll try it out this afternoon; I’ve heard it works well on slags.”

I don’t move; they do seem busy in their conversation, after all, and I hardly want their attention.

Alecto conjures an odd piece of furniture in the middle of the room, and I watch her deliberately. It looks a bit like a pull out sofa, but the proportions are all wrong; it’s too high. I know what it’s for, and I redouble my efforts to remain perfectly still. The Carrows seem not to be rushing.

I won’t rush them either. Alecto takes her time inspecting her handiwork, and I don’t make a sound.

“Alright,” says Alecto, walking over to me. “Up.”

I push myself off the ground and attempt to dust myself off, but I can’t say I’m extraordinarily successful.

“Now here’s what you’re going to do, Draco, dear,” says Alecto, and I blink, trying to focus on her face.  _This isn’t really happening to me._

She slaps me across the cheek, and I can tell she’s being restrained. My eyes snap back into focus and I remember that  _this is happening, this is real._

“Good. You’re here with me now,” she says, sounding almost sympathetic. I’d bet my left arm that she’s just doing it to play with me. I nod at her for a reason I can’t quite explain.

“You’re going to go over to my brother over there and beg him to fuck you, yes?”

 _Somehow it always manages to be worse than what I prepare for,_ I think. She sees the shock written on my face, and watches as that shock dissolves into revulsion. Alecto smiles.

“Maybe I need to remind you why you’re going to do that,” she says. “You have two friends up there that  _believe me,_ my brother would be even more pleased to fuck. The only reason he hasn’t is because we’ve got a bet running on what it’ll take to break you. Get the idea, Buttercup?

I nod yes; yes, I rather get the idea. It’s much better to pretend I don’t have a choice.

“Yes,” I say.

“Hmm,” she hums, “I think you’ll call me Mistress.”

I don’t meet her eyes. She cackles at me, sees me flinch, and she’s enjoying herself already. I grit my teeth tighter than I thought was possible.

“Draco,” she says, “Hold out your hand.”

It takes more courage than I thought I had to obey--but it’s not really courage if you have no choice. She holds it in her right hand, wand in her left. “Good boy,” she says, and I shudder.

She casts a wordless spell and I can hear every bone in my hand crack an instant before I feel the pain. She drops it and it falls to the floor uselessly; I fall to the floor uselessly and I sob in big, shuddering gasps, because somehow pain is worse when you know that your body’s breaking, too, and it’s not just in your head.

When my sobs start to lessen, she shoots me another smile and says sharply, “Draco, get up.”

I balance on one knee at first. It feels like it takes every muscle in my body to stand, but I do it anyway. Anger festers in me, for a reason she cannot possibly understand--

“Do you understand now, Draco?”

“Yes,” I say. She looks at me harshly and I add, “Yes, Mistress,” even though blood rushes to my head and my lungs feel short of air.

“Excellent,” she says. “Now go.”

I stumble over to Amycus and take long, steady breaths as I look at him. I have a choice, in this moment, and I am ruining it. I am being vulnerable when I must not hesitate.  _It’s only shameful if I let it be,_ I think,  _and if I say the words then it will happen and then it will be over. And I can shut it in a little box in my mind and do my very best to never remember it._

 _It’s just a memory that hasn’t happened yet,_ I tell myself.  _But I won’t beg; I’d rather die._

But no, that’s been preordained. I can’t die yet. Can’t die yet. Can’t die yet.

“Please,” I say, pretending that  _someone, anyone else, is saying the words,_ “please fuck me.”

Amycus looks very much placated, but a tsk from Alecto stops me in my tracks.

“Is that any way to ask your superior for a favor, bitch?” she says. “Get on your knees at the very least.”

_It’s not me; it’s someone else’s body._

I get on my knees and repeat--my voice just a hoarse whisper-- “Please fuck me.” I pause before I add, “Master,” and I add it only because I cannot stand the thought of having to ask a third time.

Amycus does not hesitate; he takes me by the hair and my shoulders and pushes me towards the sofa and then stops, as if he’s changed his mind.

“I think I’ll fuck your mouth instead,” he says, and I try to convince my mind to run, to leave my body to its misery and to keep my consciousness safe.

He pushes me back down on my knees, still gripping my hair with his greasy fingers. I realize suddenly that it aches a bit, but nothing close to the pain in my hand. I wonder if I’ll ever play cello again. Probably not, but hardly because of my hand.

He fumbles with his belt buckle and unzips his jeans. The smell hits me first, and I’m overcome with another wave of revulsion. It doesn’t matter, though, because he forces his erection into my mouth anyway, and rips my hair towards it.

I have no choice but to repress my gag reflex and let him do what he wants.

 _It’s just my body,_ I think.  _My mind is far away; my mind is back in fifth year, practicing cello._

I’m with Pansy in the Room of Requirement. She has her violin--a quaint old thing, that’s so tiny I forget that our instruments really are similar--and I have my cello.

We take out the piece we practice normally; it’s eight minutes long and far from easy. Stravinsky’s Suite Italienne transcribed for violin and cello. It seems music is one of the things muggles truly get right. Neither of us are very serious about our instruments anymore, but it’s nice to have someone to play with. Pansy, of course, insists that violin is harder, but she’s wrong.

It’s easy to be carried away by how the melody intersects our instruments. It’s sweeping, and I focus on the feeling underneath my fingertips.

My hands were made for this, and Pansy and I--we make beautiful music.

The illusion is shattered because I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe at all and I’m gagging and I think for a moment that this would be a pointless way to die.

It takes a moment for me to think of breathing slowly, through my nose, though that does nothing to alleviate my disgust, and now that I can breathe I notice that there are involuntary tears streaming down my cheeks.

 _It’s hopeless, really. It always was hopeless._ And all I can do is breathe and try to keep my mouth open, no matter how much my jaw aches or how my gag reflex twinges. Finally, his muscles tense and he drags my head forward and releases.

I swallow mostly because I can’t stand to taste it. He sighs and lets my hair go, and I let myself slump all the way onto the floor. He zips his pants back up and doesn’t say anything; he just goes back up the stairs with Alecto.

I stay right there, naked on the floor, for a long time, my eyes squeezed shut. After a while, I drag myself to the sofa and curl up against the armrest. I hug my knees to my chest and rock myself slowly, in small jerky motions.

Nothing can make me forget, and so I don’t think of anything. For the first time since I’ve been a prisoner here, I let myself cry.

**_Ouch, I have lost myself again  
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found._ **

I drift off into sleep despite it only being afternoon. I have every reason to be exhausted. 

“Well come on, Allie! Give the boy his clothes back!”

I’m startled, and I draw my legs even closer to myself. I feel a wave of nausea; Bellatrix must have come back from her mission. As Alecto goes upstairs--to get my clothes, I presume--Bellatrix looks me over.

“Not much muscle on you,” she comments, and I’m not that offended. She prods my bicep and I do my best not to flinch away.

She notices my broken hand and mutters, “Episkey,” before I realize what she’s doing. I cry out when the bones in my hand rearrange, and I’m confused why she’s healing me. But I won’t complain. If I get out of here alive--

I stop thinking that way. Hope is dangerous.

She doesn’t touch me anywhere else, though, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or scared.

Alecto comes back down the stairs, holding my clothes. She looks angry, but I know she is too afraid of Bellatrix to say anything. Alecto throws my clothes at me, and I drape them over my legs and hold them tightly.

“Put them on, Draco, you’ve got an appointment,” says Bellatrix, and she laughs suddenly. “Wouldn’t want to scare the poor girl.

I almost expect to be hexed when I obey, but there is an unusual silence from both Alecto and Bellatrix. Amycus is gone and I’m hardly one to complain about that. I would be very happy if I never had to see  _or_ smell him ever again.

Alas, my wish is ignored because just moments later, I hear his feet stomp down the stairs followed by a less certain gait.

“Pansy,” says Bellatrix, “I’m so glad you could join us.” She smiles again, and I wonder briefly if she ever brushes her hair. Probably not, but that is not important now.

Pansy. She looks uncertain as she stands there; almost a little angry. “What’s this about?” she asks, “And what are you doing here Draco?” fixing her eyes on me.

I don’t look at her.

“Don’t talk to him,” says Bellatrix, “you’re here to do what I say.”

I imagine for a moment that Pansy will know what’s happening, and she’ll hex Bellatrix and grab my hand and run away from Alecto with me.

It won’t happen. No matter how much of a crush Pansy Parkinson has on me, she really is an extremely pragmatic individual. I’ve always admired that about her.

Pansy fixes her eyes on Bellatrix. “And what are you going to tell me to do?”

Bellatrix laughs again, holding her wand carefully in her right hand. She taps it against her temple, and says, “You’re going to draw your wand.”

Pansy does so cautiously, surveying her surroundings. She must think Bellatrix is training her. She’s half right. I think she wants to see if Pansy has the guts to hurt me. I’m sure she does if she’s pushed to it, but I’m not particularly eager to find out.

“Good,” says Bellatrix brightly. “Now you’re going to cast the Cruciatus curse on your dear friend Mr. Malfoy.”

Pansy looks at me, and then looks at Bellatrix. I still don’t meet her eyes, I just slip down off the sofa and sit on the floor in front of it; I’ll have less a distance to fall. I always did appreciate practicality.

“No,” says Pansy sharply, and even I’m a little surprised. “I don’t know what he’s done, but I won’t do it.”

To say I feel a surge of affection is an understatement. It’s foolish, of course; she’ll have to do it in the end. She’ll regret saying no. But that she says no fills me with a strange sort of elation anyways.

I realize later that it’s hope.

“No?” says Bellatrix. “Are you sure you mean that?” She gets closer to Pansy, and circles her. She looks like a predator, a snake, observing his prey.

I look up at Pansy and say simply, “Do it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Pansy inhales sharply. “I can’t,” she says, setting her jaw. “I won’t,” she says, more quietly.

“Give me your wand, then,” says Bellatrix, and Pansy realizes she doesn’t have a choice. She gives up her wand without complaint. She looks at me, uncertain and I see that she is scared. I’ve never seen her look scared before.

I can’t reassure her, and that knowledge makes me sick.

“Stand,” says Bellatrix to me, and I do. My knees creak. She hands me Pansy’s wand, and says, “Show Ms. Parkinson how.”

I know what she means. I’m just not sure I’m capable of performing the curse. I don’t have will; I don’t even have rage. I don’t know how I’ve performed it before. Before it simply was necessary; I made myself not think about it.

I can do that again. It’s necessary now. I face Pansy, holding her wand, and I open my mouth.

"Pansy,” I say, “sit down.”

My voice cracks and she looks at me pleadingly.

“Please,” I say, and she listens. She leans back on her hands, and this is the widest her eyes have ever been. I stop thinking; stop noticing.

“Crucio,” I say, and by the force that flows from the wand, I know it is successful. The scream that follows is unearthly and unbearably loud.

Bellatrix waves her hand and I end the spell. She reaches for Pansy’s wand and I hand it to her, still impassive. I wonder if that was Pansy’s first time; it probably was. Normal people, even almost-Death Eaters, don’t ever experience it.

“Sorry,” I whisper. I doubt that Pansy hears me. Bellatrix pulls Pansy to her feet and she whimpers softly. I wonder if I sounded like that.

I don’t doubt it.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” says Pansy. Bellatrix hands Pansy her wand, and she grips it tightly. I sit back down on the floor and give her a small nod that is much braver than I feel.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, and I clamp my eyes shut as she curses me; the pain hits me like a wave again. I spend all my focus on not screaming--my throat will hurt more later, and I don’t want Pansy to hear me scream.

I groan, I cry, I sob--I think--but I am successful. I can’t remember if the pain was this bad last time. Every muscle seizes and cramps and I am sure there are a hundred hands stabbing me, burning me, cracking open my head.

It ends. Pansy’s eyes are wide with shock, and she turns away from me and cries. I want to comfort her, like I did when Blaise broke up with her. I want to comfort her, like how I did when her cat went missing and she found only bits of fur the next morning.

I want to tell her I don’t mind; I know she didn’t have a choice.

But by the time I have the strength to stand, both Pansy and Bellatrix are gone up the stairs.

I hope I’ll see her again. I need to make it right. It’s not fair that I only got a year to make up for what I’ve done. It’s not fair that I won’t get to watch muggle movies with her anymore, or play cello in the Room of Requirement, or let her take me shopping for candy when I’m upset. I miss the time we dressed up in fancy muggle clothing and went to see a symphony orchestra when we were fourteen.

Pansy doesn’t deserve this, and that makes me think for a moment that  _maybe, just maybe, I don’t either._

I wish I had a window. I want to know if it’s raining.

I think it does rain, that night. I hear occasional bursts of thunder, and the basement feels more damp. When I was small, my father would take me on rain walks and lift me up over the puddles because I hated getting my feet wet.

I still love my parents, I realize in a flash. My father is evil and my mother lets him be, but it’s true. I wonder if they love me. My mother must; I don’t think she knows where I am.

I hope she doesn’t find out. She couldn’t do anything about it; she may only be on the floor above me, but so is Voldemort.

I imagine that Astoria is singing again, and I do my best to relax and listen to the thunder. There’s nothing more to be done; no one else is here, after all. This is my shame to bear alone.

I don’t know if Hermione and Astoria are alive. I assume they are, because killing them would have no benefit, and at the very least the three of us seem to keep them amused. They probably hope that the Granger girl might even draw Potter straight here.

It occurs to me, for the first time, strangely, that I’m lucky that Voldemort doesn’t know about Harry and me. Information like that is far too dangerous. I wouldn’t want to be bait. I loathe that idea even more than I loathe my current situation. Pain is one thing--but to have Potter of all people risk everything for me--that is unacceptable.

Pansy was bad enough. I’m glad I won’t have to worry about her any longer, though. She gives in easily, and that means she’ll stay alive.

She was Bellatrix’s idea, I’m sure. She’ll have more ideas; what excites her is to create more pain--to break people in ways specific to the individual. My only saving grace so far is that there’s a war going on, which limits the time she can devote to her creativity.

The Dark Lord must not be giving Alecto and Amycus much to do, considering how much free time they’ve had. Just my luck.

The time spans on, empty and long. It wears on me. If I was in some unknown place, I would look for some chance to escape. But I know all of the basement already; there is no way out. There is little I can do but care for my injuries--those that are visible--and spend the rest of my time in a hazy state reliving my happiest memories.

It surprises me slightly to consider how many of my memories I think fondly of. Even recalling playing Quidditch second year is enough to make my heart soar. I regret how I treated those around me, but I can’t really hate myself for it. I was so small, so lost, even just a little while ago. Older men might look at me now with similar pity.

I consider how much hatred I harbored when I was ten and twelve. Going toe to toe with Harry brought me so much elation. I believe it made me feel like I had control over something in my life, but who really knows? The human mind--mine most of all-- is an enigma.

Still, I think back on our rivalry with fondness. Sure, I regret how much time we wasted on being enemies--but being rivals was awfully fun.

And now that we’re lovers--

I try not to think of the things I’ve done with Harry. Considering what’s happened to me, it’s pointless to use euphemisms but I do anyway. I’ve always been a bit of a prude about sex--blustery about it of course, but when it comes down to it--

If I think about it, I’ll ruin it. I can’t help thinking about what will happen when this is all over. I can’t imagine it, exactly, but I imagine that if there is a future for me, it will have to be in a world without Voldemort. Even if I escape--somehow, in some impossible scenario--I’m hated by both sides, and neither will stop.

I will be hunted, and if I weren’t already exhausted in every meaning of the word, I would be afraid. It seems foolish to worry about the best possible scenario, but here I am. There’s a reason I’m not in Gryffindor.

I wonder if I ever truly thought this through when I first joined the Order. I know I thought I did; it all seemed very calculated at the time. My arrogance always gets in the way of things, though. Getting caught was something that happened to other people.

“Fuck this, honestly,” I mutter, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve said it aloud. I look around hurriedly, as if I’m worried my mother will hear and tell me off.

When I realize the absurdity, I laugh at myself.

The only blessing of being in this basement is that I don’t have to see the Dark Lord anymore. He wouldn’t waste his time with me. I still feel the Dark Mark; I always will. But at least I don’t have to see him. I don’t have to bow to him. I don’t have to see my mother and father obey whatever he asks--even if it’s giving up their wands.

Not that my father deserves to keep his, I think darkly. Mine is snapped in two by his hands. And that, above all, is unforgivable.

I think it is early morning when Bellatrix returns. It is just her, this time, which is no comfort. She has dark circles under her eyes, and it occurs to me that the war is not easy on anyone, not even her.

I feel not an ounce of pity. I would not even if she were in unending pain; I know she would not spare me any.

She will not.

I prepare my defense. This time it is not Bach; it is Saint-Saens. It is the first cello solo I played that made me realize I was much, much more than decent. My father and my cello teacher both told me it wasn’t real music, it was far too emotional, but  _Le Cygne_ appealed to me at the time in ways words can never really describe.

Bellatrix looks me up and down.

“Pity,” she says simply.

I gaze at her steadily--I will not be afraid until I cannot choose otherwise. I know it doesn’t make sense; I will beg and scream and sob as soon as she begins. But until she does, I will not submit.

“You would have been good at Occlumency,” she says, analytically. I don’t spit; I don’t agree nor disagree. She’s not wrong.

I’m damn good at Occlumency. Professor Snape always said it was because I am even more emotionally repressed than the rest of my family, but I prefer to take it as a compliment.

She raises her eyebrows slightly at me, and I manipulate my lips to look even more impassive. “Good,” she says. The anticipation in her voice is an unpleasant prospect.

“Now,” she continues shrilly, “you’re going to take all your clothes off and sit on the sofa, and we’ll have a little chat.”

 _Unflinching,_ I think,  _I have to be if I’m going to survive._

So I don’t hesitate. I ignore the pain in my chest that’s so strong I can’t believe it’s psychosomatic.  _Get a grip._

I sit on the sofa like I’m told and try to give the impression that sitting naked on an uncomfortable sofa is something I’ve chosen to do. I look at her just as impassively as before and she smiles. Her thin lips are drawn over a mouth that is too wide for her face and I wonder how a family that created my mother could also make her.

She still holds her wand and I wonder briefly if she’d kill me if I tried to take it. I won’t risk it; even if she didn’t have magic, she’s just as strong as I am.

She looks at me like I’m a science experiment and I realize that to her I actually might be. “I have a theory about you, Mr. Malfoy,” Bellatrix says. “And I think you’ll tell me how close I am as we go along.”

I give her a stiff nod.

“I’m not a betting woman, Draco,” she says pouting her lips, “But I do know people. And people, to you, are a mystery. Warm or cold?”

“Warm,” I say. There’s no point in lying--yet.

“And you’ve never once considered that there’s actually a very good reason for me doing this?”

“Cold,” I say. I know that Bellatrix Lestrange does whatever she likes. And this? Mind games, humiliation, torture, healing spells, and then repeating the process--this is what she likes.

“And it’s not just that I like it, although, you’re right, I do,” she says, her eyes flaring. "Having you down here does a very, very good job of controlling my darling sister. And you haven’t considered that yet. She knows you’re down here, Draco. Of course she knows.”

She must see my half-hearted attempt to hide my anger, because she giggles and I am even more furious.

“Do you really think you’ll survive this?” asks Bellatrix. My anger recedes.

“No,” I say, and I have no way of knowing if I’m lying.

“Pragmatic, are we? Hope for the best, expect the worse and that bollocks?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m a Slytherin, after all.”

“I almost wasn’t,” says Bellatrix flippantly. “I always did look good in green, and the Sorting Hat took that into consideration.”

“What else could you be?”

“Ravenclaw, I’m told. But I’m being an awfully bad host, this should be all about you.”

Her face switches from amusement to impatience so quickly that I’m caught off guard.  _A loose cannon. That’s what mother always called her._

Only now do I understand the metaphor. She flicks her wand, and I move to the center of the sofa involuntarily. She ends the spell in another flick, and says, “As much as I would have enjoyed watching you fume at me, I need you to stay right there for just a moment.”

It’s the Imperius Curse, I realize. I can’t move, and she knows it. She could have chosen a different spell, and immobilizing one, but she chooses this one. She goes back upstairs and I hear her rummaging just above me.

She comes back with a short knife and a bright smile. “I think I’ll give you a scar to remind you what you are.”

She looks at me, and I know she is calculating something. A flick of her wand releases me from the Imperius curse and my moment of relief is overshadowed by the gruesome thought that I’d prefer to not have to worry about keeping still.

“I think you will stay still, my dear. I know you understand the consequences,” she says, and as she grabs my left arm--the one with the Dark Mark--I instinctively close my eyes.

“No,” she says, all of the faux-sympathy vanishing from her voice. “You’ll look me in the eye, Mr. Malfoy.”

My courage is gone. “I--.I can’t,” I try to explain,  _I can’t stay still, I can’t,_ and my resolve is all but gone.

“Please,” I say, trying to keep control of my expression.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to do yet,” she says. I hate myself--the pain hasn’t even started yet--

She grips my hand tighter and I clench my other arm in a fist. She laughs as I stifle a muffled cry--the knife takes away my self control, and I cannot stop myself from spazzing away, from trying to rip the arm out of her grip.

She doesn’t let go, and my mind starts to drift. I get control of it, I direct it, and when I realize that she is writing--no, carving--something into my arm, it is a detached thought that I barely understand.

I am floating as a swan floats on a lake. I let the melody carry me and tears squeeze out of the corners of my eyes. My body shudders, but I have a fortress. It slows time down, it protects me, it directs me to breathe every accented note and when I do, the pain is still bad but it is somehow  _other,_ it is separate. It is happening to someone  _other._

She is done, with that message at least, and she releases my forearm from her iron grip.  _TRAITOR,_ it reads. The second  _T_ bisects the Dark Mark, and I consider with a peculiar pride that there are worse things to be a traitor to.

My hands are sticky with sweat and brutally cold. The message goes from the crook of my elbow to almost my palm, and it is deep but not so deep that Bellatrix feels the need to heal me.

The nausea is back. I’m not particularly shocked.

Bellatrix looks me over from a few feet away, and she looks unsatisfied. She paces back and forth and mutters.

“Interesting,” she says--the first word that is intelligible enough to make out. “Where do you go?” she asks me, but I’m not sure if it’s rhetorical.

I merely look at her, and she snarls, “Where do you go?”

“There’s nowhere to go,” I respond.

She paces more quickly, looking angrier and angrier. An unpleasant thought has struck her, and the sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.

“The presence of mind,” she mutters. “That’s the difference.”

She stomps back upstairs and yells to whoever might hear, “I’ve done it.” Her laugh makes me sick.

I go back to my workbench where my clothes are draped, and put on my pants and trousers. I leave my shirt off--I won’t have it ruined by blood. I sit back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. I wonder how many prisoners have lain here. I wonder how many of them were here while I had dinner directly above.

I spend the next few hours watching the blood on my arm dry. It’s slightly more compelling than watching paint dry, but also much more gruesome. I hate how it tightens the skin around the wound, I hate that it’s dirty and makes me feel sticky. Somehow it’s more comforting than the Cruciatus Curse--it always feels like there should be some mark left, some scar that proves I lived through it.

I take the time to consider that everyone’s Cruciatus is a little different. Father’s always felt like burning cold, like infinitely thin razors slipped between every nerve. Like being doused in ice water and then being set on fire.

Amycus’s felt more like being hit in the head with a bludger and having to suffer the consequences. Bellatrix’s was much more like a hot iron, and I think these differences reflect their personalities rather accurately.

I don’t consider Pansy’s really, because it was effective but weak. It didn’t have a flair to it, which I think bodes well for Pansy’s moral compass.

By the time it reaches dusk, I assume that Bellatrix is gone for good--for the day, at least, but I seem to be wrong. She tears down the stairs just after dinner appears on the workbench, and I wince as soon as I hear her boots on the stairs. I stay glued to the sofa, but I am immediately alert. I tend to do much better if I have time to heal, prepare, and psych myself up.

I think she knows this, just as she knows that it will shock me when she sprays me with a torrent of icy water from her wand. I gasp for breath--and as I do, she barks up the stairs, “Fenrir!”

My blood turns cold to match the rivulets of water running off my back. Pieces of Bellatrix’s plan start to come together. She’s not just looking at me like an experiment; I am an experiment. She’s testing me, pulling me in all sorts of directions and spreading me thin so she can figure out where I crack.

Fenrir careens down the stairs--his walk has never been humanlike. The smell hits me first: it’s of grease, wet fur, and burnt rubber. He looks and smells like he washes by splashing water on his face and hoping for the best.

Involuntarily, my lip curls up in disgust.

“Here he is as promised,” says Bellatrix. “Do what you will with him, but don’t kill him. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She leaves, and Fenrir leers at me. I sit up straighter on the sofa, and he walks around the landing by the bottom of the stairs. His eyes never leave me and I can predict what will happen next.

When he limps purposefully towards me and puts a claw-like finger on my chest, I barely wince, but I do not look at him. The touch is surprisingly soft, but it rattles me. Every nerve ending fires, and every hair stands on end.

He trails his forefinger down to my navel, and my muscles tense uncomfortably. His fingers fumble around the button of my trousers; he does not often have to use his fine motor skills. Instead, he grunts at me to take them off, and I do. I fold them up and place them behind me, on the back of the sofa.

My pants follow, and he hoists me up with by the forearms so he can have a look at me. I flinch a little as his sharp fingernails rip open the scab forming on my arm, and he chuckles.

He looks hungry. He shoves me so my back is facing him, and then turns me around again. When he steps closer to me, I recoil from his stench and he grabs my hair in retaliation, and forces my head towards him: he’s taller than me, my head only comes up to his chin.

When I smell him, it’s quite accidental and very unwanted. But he returns the favor, most deliberately, and traces his tongue from my collarbone up to my chin. My skin prickles unpleasantly and I hate the fact that I can’t ignore what’s happening.

Without further warning, he clamps his teeth into the flesh between my neck and my shoulder, and I cry out. It’s not gentle, or personal, really, and it relieves me. It’s just like the other times, then; it’s about power and nothing else. Odd though it may be, that thought comforts me.

When he finally releases my neck, I can feel already that a bruise will bloom. More than a bruise, perhaps, I’m bleeding. At least it’s not the full moon. If it were, I’d be lucky to be mauled, permanently crippled, or turned. As it is now--

He seems proud of his handiwork, and next he throws me off balance and shoves me all the way into the ground. I put out my hands to break my fall, but I still hit the ground hard and jar my chin. He kneels down next to me, and rubs his fingers in the dirt on the floor and pushes my cheek even further into the ground.

I don’t bother to hide that my breaths are coming in sudden panicked bouts. It’s what comes next that I dread; that I have been dreading.

He stands back up and puts a heavy foot on my back to keep me crushed into the dirt. He tears at his ripped trousers, frenzied, and I assume he manages to get them off. I do my utmost not to look, but he leans over my neck anyway and breathes heavily.

He enjoys the whimper it draws from me.

After that, he’s all business. He crouches over me, and spits liberally on his hand with a sound that makes me retch. I’m lucky that there’s so little in my stomach that it seems not to matter.

What he does to me is not sex. It’s punishment, I suppose. It’s humiliation, it’s a power game. But it’s not sex: I tell myself that in case I forget. It’s easy to forget things especially when you try not to.

My mind has nowhere to go this time. There’s just a dull, building horror that I cannot escape, and I listen to the sound of my body scraping rhythmically against the dirt floor. I feel his hands hoisting up my hips and I feel intensely where his fingernails dig in. I feel the scratches developing on the right side of my face. I feel my legs cramping because they’re not used to being forced apart.

When he’s finished, he pulls out and cums on my back. He pulls his trousers back up, wedges his booted toe underneath my ribs and flips me over onto my back.

He spits on my face before he leaves, and I drag myself piece by piece across the floor so I can lean up against the sofa.

When Bellatrix comes back, she doesn’t stay long--but she takes one look at me and we both know who’s won.

She’s back the next morning, and I mourn her lack of orders from the Dark Lord. It would be much better if she were out hexing people instead of--

“You’re just like your father,” she says. She means it as an insult. “Can’t handle a bit of dirt? Just remember you can make it stop.”

I’m almost proud of myself for forgetting. I’m less proud of not even considering Astoria and Granger.

“I won’t,” I say.

“I think you’ll reconsider by the end of the week,” she says. She sounds happy, and I smile superficially at her.

“I won’t,” I repeat.

“See, I have a theory,” says Bellatrix.

“You have a lot of those,” I say. She laughs.

“We have a little, tiny problem, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, pouting her lips even more than usual, “Because pain doesn’t work on you.”

I don’t know what she means, and it’s written on my face.

“Sure, sure, you dislike it. It hurts. But for pain to really work, you’ve either got to  _love_ it, or dread it.” She pauses again, and taps her wand against her opposite hand. I never realized before how often she does that. “You, Mr. Malfoy, are in neither of those categories.”

I look at her dead on and question her judgement slightly. I assume she counts herself in the first category. I would count myself in the second. Why she does not eludes me.

“But there is something you do dread. A few things, actually,” she adds girlishly, “And one of those things is shame. Shame happens to be my specialty, Nephew. All I need to know is what you like.”  

I shrug.

“Everyone likes something, Nephew. I’ll find out what it is eventually.”

I box my own self-knowledge into an even tighter corner of my mind. If I never think of it, let alone speak of it, I can pretend it’s not there.

Just like that, it’s not there.

“It’s not pain,” she mutters to herself, “But I pegged you as a bottom.”

It takes me a moment to realize why she is laughing, and I grimace sharply.

“Am I right?” she asks, and I hate her curiosity.

“Sex doesn’t have to be like that,” I reply. “And I hardly think--”

“There’s not a Malfoy alive who isn’t like that,” Bellatrix replies, and I don’t think about the implications. “Your father--”

I make a noise of distaste and she laughs again.  She doesn’t finish her thought--and I’m not sure why; my discomfort has never bothered her before, but she laughs all the way up the stairs.

I’m too thankful she’s gone to consider what she’s planning.

I daydream in and out of actual sleep even though it’s midday. Time doesn’t have the same meaning as it does above ground. My day is punctuated only by food and my visitors.

I wake up and give up trying to figure out the time of day. It might be midnight or morning and I would not know otherwise. Food arrives, but I do not know if it is breakfast or dinner. How long has it been? Somehow it feels longer than my entire life before.

Bellatrix is gone that day and I hope she’s not causing too much havoc with the Order. It makes me remember that there’s a world outside the impenetrable fortress of Malfoy Manor. Harry’s probably worried about Hermione, and me. I hope it doesn’t cloud his judgement, but in all honesty, he should be worried.

While Bellatrix is absent--and with her, Fenrir, presumably--Amycus and Alecto Carrow are not. They come down the stairs almost at the same time. Alecto wears a peculiar smile.

“Heard you got a fucking from Fenrir,” she smiles, and asks, “That true?”

I pretend it’s rhetorical for my sanity’s sake.

Her expression darkens, and says, “What happened to ‘Yes, Mistress,’?”

“Yes Mistress,” I say inscrutably.

“Yes, what, pet?”

 _Not this again._ I stubbornly don’t reply; I just look at her, my face burning from anger that has been building silently from the beginning.

She sees my unwillingness and humphs at me, considering her options.

“On your knees,” she says, and I don’t obey. Maybe it’s because she’s just not as scary as Bellatrix; maybe it’s because I’m not thinking straight and so much fear just leaves me feeling reckless.

“As you wish,” she replies to my refusal. In a steady motion, she draws her wand and mutters “crucio,” for once sounding as if it is a chore rather than a pleasure.

That brings me to my knees, alright, shaking and shivering and unable to move my tongue to speak. She ends the spell, looking satisfied, and says, “Now, tell me, and be polite. Is it true you got your arse fucked by the werewolf?”

Summoning all the strength left in me, I stand and look her square in the eye. She glowers in a way that indicates I will suffer with whatever happens next, but that was already preordained.

“Imperio,” she says, and now my knees unlock without my conscious control. She leans over me, and murmurs, “Careful, now. We wouldn’t want to have to get poor Ms. Greengrass from the study, now would we?”

She releases me from the curse and expects me to reply, and my sense of duty returns to me.

“You won’t have to do that.” She looks at me, and I add, “Mistress.”

“Good boy,” she says, and I honestly think that praise is worse. “Now, are you going to answer my question, or not?”

“He did,” I say; I am tight lipped and with clenched teeth, but I say it.

“Say it for me,” she repeats.

“Yes, he fucked me,” I say, and I don’t know why saying it is so hard when I know the consequences if I don’t. Necessity should make it easy, but I can’t even look Alecto in the eyes.

She smiles. “Well that wasn’t so hard,” she says more softly.

“Amycus,” she snaps, “get the boy his gift!” She turns to me and adds, “It was my idea, but Amycus made it happen. Turn around, it’ll be a surprise.”

I turn around and close my eyes for good measure. I don’t want to know. I want to go away, back to the Room of Requirement. I need it now more than I ever did. I need Pansy, I need Astoria, I need Harry, I need my mother.

But I turn around, and my back is straight, and my head is unbowed. I startle for a moment when Alecto vanishes my shirt; the cold that follows feels strange.

It becomes clear, though, that it’s only to get better access to my neck, because Amycus has a leather collar that he fastens there. He uses his wand to attach the ends and I know there’s no way to remove it except with magic.

It’s pathetic how much that bothers me, and I realize why: some part of me is still holding on to the hope that I’ll get out of this alive, and if that happens--I don’t want someone else to have to take it off me. I don’t ever want a soul to know what’s happened in this room. I don’t want them to know that I’ve been treated like a slave, because that’s a stronger mark on me than the one still oozing blood and pus on my arm.

There’s nothing to be done. I turn back to face them when ordered to, and I don’t make a sound when Alecto says, “You should give him a go, too, Brother.”

When I ignore the violation, it’s just pain. And pain? I can handle. I go back to the Room of Requirement--back to fifth year with just Pansy and my cello, and my heart soars.

When he finally leaves, I crumple to the floor again and question why I feel the need to pretend I am strong at all. A stronger person wouldn't question himself. He would do what needs to be done and ignore the rest.

I am not a stronger person, and sometimes I think I deserve it. I can't explain why, because in my heart of hearts I know that no one really does. But that changes nothing. I've done too many things wrong for to absolve myself of blame. It's the least I can do to minimize what happens to Granger and Astoria. Astoria doesn't even know what she's doing, really. Or maybe she does. Who knows?

I drape my coat over myself and curl up on the sofa again. I think of a muggle movie I watched with Pansy, once. It was all black and white, except for one scene where a little girl was wearing red. It's stayed with me for years, because the music was so haunting. By the end of the movie, there's another splash of red, and this time it's in a pile of dead bodies. I didn't  know at the time why muggles want to watch sad things, but Pansy looked it up later and found out it was a true story. We kept it secret, though, because knowing about muggles isn't something that purebloods are supposed to do.

Originally, it started because the music in muggle movies was beautiful, and we didn't really care about the backgrounds. But eventually, it became a preoccupation, and every time we'd sleep over at each other's house, we'd sneak out and into the movie theaters--we didn't have money for tickets. We never got caught.

Now I'm glad for that experience. It's something more to think fondly of, and I don't shy away from dwelling on it. It's better than the waves of dread and shame that threaten to drown me.

I eat again. I drink water. I barely have any to spare, but I use the corner of the rag and a bit of water to wipe the carving on my arm. I don't want it to get infected, because I doubt Bellatrix will heal it. She wants me to have to look at it. I don't care about that; I just wonder if I'll ever be able to hide it.

It's strange that she didn't use her wand to make the cuts, but I suppose she enjoys the aesthetic of knives. Besides, she could easily have cursed the blade so that it is guaranteed to scar. That seems like the sort of thing that Bellatrix would do.

It's interesting to me that she just writes 'traitor' on my arm, instead of 'blood traitor.' I assume she ran out of room.

I tug uncomfortably at the collar around my neck, and when it fails to give way, I merely button up my shirt higher. If I ever get a wand again--

My clothes are filthy. I am filthy, and I'd be willing to trade just about anything for a shower, not that I've anything left to trade. My back itches, my face burns from the dirty scratches. I'm covered in abrasions and dirt and dried semen, blood, and sweat, and it's enough to drive me insane.

The Order has to beat them soon, right? Resources can't be wasted on a rescue mission, but I know the Death Eaters are already planning their attack. If I believed in a God, I would pray.

Bellatrix's mission seems not to last very long. She comes back that afternoon, wearing clothes that look like they haven't been washed anywhere near frequently enough.

She takes one look at me, says, "Hold your arms out," and binds my arms together, which I think is odd. She holds the other end, and says, "We're going upstairs, you're going to shower."

I am immediately suspicious, because there has to be a catch.

"Go," she says, and shoves me in front of her. When she pushes me into the bathroom, I almost expect some humiliation, some new torment. I don't expect for her to mutter, "you have half an hour," and close the door.

I'm alone. With a beautiful, luxurious shower and a set of clothes to change into. There has to be a catch.

But there isn't. I don't delay, I take off my clothes and step into the shower and it's delightfully warm and lovely to feel the dirt flow off of me. It stings against my injuries, but not terribly. I decide not to second guess it--no matter what comes next, I'm determined to enjoy the half an hour I have.

It's glorious. I'll never take something as simple as a shower for granted again. I let thoughts--pleasant thoughts--drift through my mind like clouds, and it even feels like I can avoid the dread- for just a little while.

My hair is blond again, and my skin doesn't itch. I dry myself off with a towel and feel a twinge of anxiety that I can't put my finger on. It's a particular, peculiar feeling that doesn't match up and it bothers me. It feels almost as if--

A wave of panic follows.  _It was a trick; it was a trick so I would relax, and it worked, I've been so stupid._ And of course all I can do is think of all the things that I can't let her know.

She's using Legilimency and it's too far gone for me to repel. She's picking through my brain and I'm too exhausted to quarantine it. All the carefully packed boxes in my mind are being torn open, and all I can do is sweep behind her and pack them back up; drive her into a corner.

I've been a fool.

I change into the new clothes numbly. I don't know what they'll do with my old ones; half of me hopes that they're burned. She knows, now. I have to assume she knows everything--Harry, how much I'm afraid of my father, how disgusted I am with myself, which memories I go to when I'm suffering. I've been a fool.

I gather my courage when I exit the room; I'll need it. She's been waiting outside the door, and I expected that. She wouldn't be stupid enough to leave me alone for long, not that she really left me alone. She's been in my mind, too. She'd know if I tried to escape.

"I was right," she says triumphantly. She renews the incarcerous spell and leads me back down the stairs to the basement.

It's cleaner than it was when I left, and I appreciate it, as petty as it may be. The house elves must have stopped by on Bellatrix's orders. She ends the spell binding my hands before she Disapparates in a flurry of black smoke.

One of the house elves must still care for me at some level, because on the workbench is a salve. At first I assume it's a trick, but I smell it and recognize its qualities. It is meant to ease pain and reduce infection, and I test a tiny bit of it on a corner of the carving on my arm. It immediately burns, but the inflammation ebbs away, so I roll up my sleeve and add more to the rest of my arm.

I'm careful not to use much, because who knows what else I'll need it for. I don't know if it was given to me under orders or not, but I decide to hide it just in case. It goes into a small bin underneath the workbench that I hadn't noticed before. I fold up the coat that I was given, too, and place it on top of the salve for safe keeping.

I resolve to keep my clothes cleaner this time, if only for my sanity. I’ve returned to where I was at the start. I have to be ready for anything, but until then, there is nothing to be done.

The minutes pass by in a haze. I don’t think she is gone longer than an hour, but it feels like an impossibly long one.

There is inspiration written on her face, and she is smiling widely. This is Bellatrix at her strongest, wild and whimsical. She knows exactly what she will do next, and--

Without speaking, she draws her wand, and it surprises me when she does not turn it on me.

Instead she flourishes it, casting a wordless spell that must be impressive in its complexity, for it causes the walls and floors themselves to groan and shift.

The room is transformed and as I look around at it, I realize I recognize it--every minute detail. She has recreated the small practice room behind the Slytherin common room--where many of the students went when they needed somewhere to be alone. It’s tucked away and masked by privacy spells; I didn’t find it until my third year.

The room is beautiful as it always has been. The floor is gleaming hardwood; there is a hearth, and a sturdy desk apart from it. The walls should be decorated with green tapestries.

But this room’s walls are not. The tapestries are red, and it dawns on me.  _Bellatrix was never in this room; this room is in my memories._

This is where I lost my virginity. This is where--this is private, this is unfair, this was my knowledge and my knowledge alone--

_“Do you trust me?” he asks, and my eyes are wide but I nod. He lays his hand on my upper back, and pulls me towards him. He leans forward and kisses me, and he feels warm and concrete, like fire and Christmas and excitement, and my heart jumps._

_“It’s okay,” he says, “you don’t have to.” I shake my head but I feel like I’m swallowing my tongue, because I forget I’m brave, and it feels like it’s happening so fast._

_“Draco,” he says, and I focus on his voice again, and I can speak again._

_“I want to,” I breathe._

_“Just like we said?”_

_“Yes,” I say, but I don’t know what I’m doing and I didn’t know I would be this scared the first time._

_“You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” he says, “We’ll go slow.” His voice catches._

_“How do you know what to do,” I say before I can help myself._

_He laughs and I’m hurt, but he adds, “It’s not hard. Just do what feels good, and we figure out what feels good together. Stop worrying.”_

_I scowl at him, but it’s only to hide that I can’t help worrying._

_He pushes me back towards the wall of the room, and glances up at the tapestries on the wall. He keeps one hand on my chest, and pulls out his wand. He murmurs something I can’t quite hear, and the drapes turn a deep red color._

_"This is Slytherin’s room,” I say, genuinely angry for a moment._

_“It’ll wear off. Besides, it’s mine for now.”_

_He kisses me softly at first and I kiss back, harder. I might not know what I’m doing, but I do it anyway._

_“God, you’re hot,” he says, and I sigh at him._

_I let him push me back against the wall, and I can’t help thinking that it’s real; he’s really there. I’m really here._

_“Let’s go to the sofa,” I say, “I’m done waiting.”_

_I let him lead me there._

“Do you trust me, Draco,” says Bellatrix, and she leers at me. In my head, I step forward, I hex her; I punch her in the face because I don't have a wand. I stop her from  _doing this to me._

“You  _cunt_ ,” I say viciously, and it occurs to me that I’ve never used that word before.

She laughs. “Sharper tongue than usual, Draco, did I strike a chord?”

I spit at her feet.

“Langlock,” she mutters in retaliation, and my tongue is glued to the top of my mouth. There’s more things I want to spit at her, more insults and more hatred, because  _I am not done,_ and she has taken away something irreplaceable.

“Obscuro,” she says, and I am cast into darkness by the slip of fabric bound around my eyes. She binds my hands again pushes me towards the sofa.

My arms clutch against the leather of the cushions and she gives me a final shove so I lose my balance.

I plead with her to stop, I yell, I cry, but it comes out in mumbles and a string of drool.

“Poor baby,” comes her voice from above me, “I thought you liked this last time.”

Last time.

_Harry’s lips hover over mine; his fingers are locked around my wrists, which are pinned above my head. He kisses me and I strain upwards to meet him halfway. He moves his head back suddenly, smirking, and I realize he’s teasing me._

_When he leans back down again to finally kiss me, I curl my lips back and turn my head to avoid him._

_“Oh really?” he says, “you don’t get to choose that,” and he smirks. He damn well smirks and I freeze.”_

_“It’s not a game,” I mutter._

_“You take everything so seriously. Have some fun. What do you want?”_

_“You,” I say, impulsively. “How come you get to choose.”_

_He raises his eyebrows at me. “Because you asked me to, you git.”_

_“Only because--”_

_“Because why, Malfoy,” he says, and he takes the weight off my wrists._

_“No,” I say, and he looks at me strangely._

_“You need to tell me what you want, or I won’t do anything,” says Harry._

_Why of all times is it now that I feel coy? Why can’t I just spit it out, what I want. I just have to stop worrying and say it, but--_

_He looks at me, and I look at him and decide I can’t ruin it--and even if he doesn’t like what I ask for, I have to ask for something._

_“I want--” His eyes are patient but his lips curl up at me and I know he is laughing at my unsureness._

_“I want you to kiss me again,” I say, and I’m buying time, “and then like last time, but--”_

_“You don’t need to worry,” he says again, “What do you want?”_

_“Blindfold me,” I say, and I hope he doesn’t take it like I don’t want to see him. I can’t explain why I do want that, but I do, and somehow it’s the right answer because he kisses me harder and says, “I don’t know why you think you’re not hot.”_

_“I know I’m hot,” I say._

How could she. My most vulnerable moments, the shame I felt over something so entirely not shameful, how could anyone use it against me?  _I’ve done things wrong, but that was the rawest I’ve ever been; how could she taint it?_

I realize she intends to take my memories, too. She takes them, chews them up, and spits them out.

She vanishes the rest of my clothes, and I focus on my rage. It burns hot behind my eyes, it sends every muscle taut and every nerve jumps when she scratches me with nails that are far too sharp.

With Harry, my arousal was innocent and curious. With her, it is torn from me like an ugly secret. I shut off my brain, I go back to the cello because Bellatrix can touch Harry in my mind, she can bring Pansy here and make me torture her, but my cello is safe with the Order.

Bach’s prelude in G is simple, unemotional. Beautiful but not vulnerable. The cello is a fortress and my fingers can fly. She will break them, I know that; she will ruin my ability to play but she cannot take cello from me.

She doesn’t hurt me, but she and I both know I would prefer it. She is methodical, effective, and I will my body not to respond but it does anyway. The minute I orgasm, she casts a spell that cracks my hand again.

I let out a cry of pain, but I expected it.

“I have something I think you’ll like planned for tomorrow,” she says, and she leaves me there, blindfolded and bound, to return upstairs.  

She leaves me like that all night, and my sleep is uncomfortable and punctuated by shivers and cramps. During the night, the room returns to its original design. The sofa I’m on becomes threadbare. The cold in the room permeates and I sleep uncomfortably on my back to alleviate the pressure of the ropes on my wrists.

I give up on sleep in what I think are the early hours of the morning. I strain my ears and pretend that Astoria’s singing to me again, even though I know it’s impossible. I was such an idiot when I was thirteen, I think. I was an idiot when I stumbled to her doorstep, but I was clean.

****_Wrap me up, unfold me.  
I am small, I'm needy  
_ ****_Warm me up and breathe me._

I stare at the ceiling and try to remember the rest of the lyrics. It was a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, I am jolted out of my reverie. There is shouting, and I hear the sound of glass shattering against a wall. I can’t make out the words but the voice is violent. I sit up as best I can and lean forward so I can put my hands over my lap. If I could only see--

I hear boots on the stairs. In an instant, the blindfold is removed from my face and I squint reflexively, even though the basement isn’t all that bright.

It’s Bellatrix, and her eyes are fiery. She must have been the one throwing glass--but the voice yelling was far deeper. It sounded like my father’s.

She undoes the tongue-lock curse, and I open and close my jaw to stretch. I breathe better almost immediately, but still don’t speak for fear of its return. She releases my hands next, and I rub my wrists until feeling starts to come back to them.

“Your father’s coming to say hello,” she says, watching me to gauge my reaction.  _I guess it was his voice I heard._ Automatically, I get up off the couch to get my clothes.

“You won’t need those,” she says, and I stop to look at her. There is satisfaction in her eyes, like always, but she seems less crazed, and I’m wondering if she’s bluffing.

I go to get them anyway and she casts  _impedimenta_ to stop me.

“When I release you,” she says, “you will go sit down, yes?”

“Yes,” I say hoarsely--my voice is still unpracticed.

“Do you understand?” she says sharply.

I go to sit back down as soon as she permits.

It dawns on me. The suggestion of it is enough to make me retch--or it would’ve, if I had anything in my stomach. Even with that, it feels surreal. Many, many things that could happen had crossed my mind. Being handed over to Fenrir was a part of that list. But this?

I hadn’t even considered it; I wouldn’t have thought it possible until I see the dead serious and somehow utterly euphoric look on my aunt’s face.

I feel dirtier than I have in my life, even dirtier than when Fenrir pushed me against the dirt, and--

_I can’t let him touch me, I won’t let him touch me._

He’s broken my spirit more times than I can count. He’s tortured me, he’s used a spell designed to create unearthly levels of pain on his own son. But I hadn’t considered that he would subject himself to this indignity merely to further destroy me.

  _I can’t let him. I won’t let him._

_This, I cannot let him take._

“No,” I say.

_I mean, “Do anything. Do anything else.”_

_I mean, “I have lived through everything so far and I have clung to life. But--.”_

_I mean, “I would rather you take away anything and everything I love.”_

_I mean, “I would rather you kill me.”_

I would let this happen to anyone but me. I will let it happen to anyone but me. This is the limit; this is the one indignity that I cannot and will not bear.  

“No, what, Draco?” says Bellatrix. It’s the first time she’s used my first name since this ordeal has begun.

“No,” I repeat, and I do not know how I manage to say it with conviction. “Do it to anybody else. Not to me.”

“Who, then, would you suggest?” The smile on her face grows.

“Granger,” I say, despicably, miserably. “Do it to Granger.”  _Granger won’t break._ She’s less important than me right now.  _She won’t forgive me, she shouldn’t forgive me, but she won’t break._

Bellatrix pushes me in the direction of my clothes and I scramble to put them on. She marches back upstairs and the enormity of what I have done hits me.

It will be just as bad for her as it was for me. She will wish she was never born, she will fumble for some happy memory, and she will cling onto it like she would to a buoy in the middle of the ocean.

She will blame me, and she will have every right to. She will look at me, and her eyes will plead with me, and I will tell her that it’s my fault. She who is Harry Potter’s best friend, she who is muggleborn, but infinitely better than I am.

I don’t move from the workbench. I can’t collect my thoughts. I could beg; I could tell Bellatrix that I didn’t mean it, that I will take the punishment, that I won’t let Hermione suffer for me. But that’s a lie. I’m too much a coward to face this, and so I stand by the workbench as tears find their way out of the corners of my eyes.

Bellatrix’s shoes are once again audible against the stairs, and a shuffling sound follows her. It is indeed Granger, and for a moment my fear for her wellbeing is overridden by how good it feels a familiar face. Bellatrix shoves her the rest of the way down the stairs and turns back: to get my father, I presume.

I’m torn between wanting to keep my distance and wanting to help her up. I take a tentative step forward, but she manages to help herself up entirely. She looks healthy, but dirty and thin of course.

“You look terrible,” she says, and I smile instinctively--but it’s far from a genuine expression.

All I can croak out is, “I’m sorry; I’m a coward.”

She steps towards me. “Why?” she asks, and she suddenly sounds guarded. “Did you tell them where Harry is?”

“I don’t know where Harry is,” I say, truthfully, “But it’s a good thing I don’t.”

“What did you do, Malfoy?” she asks, and I remember that we are sort-of rivals.

“I gave you up,” I say simply, “I couldn’t--”

I stop trying to justify it. She looks terrified. She should be terrified. I bite my tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“What do you mean?” she asks, but I’m not thinking straight, and I can’t answer her honestly because I can’t think about it.

Instead, I just repeat, “I’m sorry.” She looks even more unnerved.

She gives up trying to get information from me, though, and instead notices the cut on my arm. “We can heal that,” she tells me, “Once I get my hands on a wand.”

“Is Astoria okay?” I ask.

Granger nods. “She’s been singing to you,” she says, and it feels like my heart opens up.

“Granger--Hermione--,” I say. “Do you know the instructions to brew a Polyjuice Potion?”

Hermione nods, not sure what I’m leading to.

“When Bellatrix comes back, think of it. Think of anything,” I say. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do it.” She opens her mouth to ask me yet again what I mean, but boots on the stairs startles her and she backs away from me.

It’s not Bellatrix, though, who stumbles into the basement, clearly drunker than I’ve seen him before. It’s my father. There are bags under his eyes, and his hair is stringy and unwashed. Were he sober, he’d be ashamed of how he looked.

Bellatrix follows him, towards Hermione, and Hermione takes a step backwards towards me. I stifle a sob in my throat and she looks at me, looking for some sort of reassurance. There is nothing to offer her.

Bellatrix steps past Hermione and faces me. “Petrificus Totalus,” she says, and I find myself stiff as a board and unable to move a muscle. I rock unsteadily backwards and am thankful that I don’t crash against the floor; the workbench holds me aloft.

Hermione glances back again, and I pity her more than I thought I was capable of. I pity her more than I hate myself for doing this to her.

My father slips off his outer coat and lets it fall to the floor. “Come here, girl, and let me have a look at you,” he says.

“Draco?” says Hermione, and she sounds more vulnerable than ever.  _Why do I have to watch? Is this not enough?_

If I could speak, I’d tell her everything that went through my brain before, and we could talk about Potions as if there’s nothing happening in the world apart from what’s in our heads. I’d tell her that I’m sorry I called her a mudblood in third year, and that she really did get a good punch in. She’d laugh a little and tell me I deserved it.

“Now,” my father snaps, but Hermione doesn’t listen. She keeps backing up, backing up until her heels reach the sofa, and I know he will tire with her.

He casts an Imperius curse with remarkable precision for his drunk self. I’m surprised he doesn’t go with Crucio; he tends to like that when he’s drunk.

It’s better for her if she knows there’s nothing she could have done, anyway. Her eyes aren’t fully glazed over, and her muscles fight to resist whatever order my father sends her, but she’s not strong enough to succeed.

She lifts off her shirt, kicks off her shoes, her jeans, her underwear, until she’s standing there in just her socks struggling her utmost to bring up her arms to cover herself.

“On the sofa,” he says, and then pauses before he continues. “Now.”

He ends his spell--I think he’s tired of keeping it up--but Hermione still stays frozen on the sofa where he’s ordered her to stay. She keeps a stiff upper lip, but tears are gathering in her eyes.

The ordeal doesn’t last long, but she looks at me plaintively as he thrusts into her. I meet her eyes and try to be some comfort because I deserve this shame.  _That is my father,_ I think over and over.  _And I let this happen._

What terrifies me is that I feel just as much relief as I do horror.

When my father is finished with her, he looks down at her, disgusted; he pushes her away from him and pulls up his pants. He stomps up the stairs and is gone, and part of me can’t comprehend what’s happened yet.

Bellatrix glares at me and ends the spell that leaves me frozen. I stay right there anyway, and Bellatrix goes over to Hermione. Wand brandished, she pulls Hermione’s arm and carves into it with a spell.

“Now you’re matching, mudblood and blood traitor,” she says venomously. Bellatrix spits on Hermione’s face before whisking back upstairs.

When it’s over and both of them are gone, Hermione won’t look up. She just hugs her knees to her chest and rocks back and forth.

I go to the workbench to retrieve her coat, and walk up to her slowly. To her credit, she doesn’t seem afraid of me, and I drape the coat over her and let her grab onto the ends tightly.

I hold my tongue instead of apologizing. It would only be for my sake, not hers. I sit down next to her, far from touching but close enough to be a presence, and I stare straight ahead. Time passes slowly. Eventually, she sniffs once, gets up, and goes to collect her clothes.

She puts on her clothes deliberately, although not particularly quickly. Her fingers quiver just the slightest amount, but otherwise there is no sign of the trauma she was subjected to.

With what’s happened to me, there’s little space in my heart for pity, but when I look at her, I realize she is worth more than my pity anyway. I admire her. I admire that she doesn’t crawl into a ball in the floor and sob.

She smoothes her hair and puts it back into a messy pony tail. She looks at it unhappily. he smoothes her jeans with her trembling palms, and she sits down next to me, taking a deep breath.

“You can’t ever tell,” she says first, and we still don’t look at each other.

“I know,” I say.

“Polyjuice potion,” she says, “Of all things. What did you think of?”  _She knows, then; she knows it happened to me._ A more rational part of my mind tells me that  _of course she’d know._

“Cello,” I say, “Astoria singing.”

She nods at me and there is an eerie silence.

“Now,” she says, running her fingers up against her forehead as if she’s looking for something to pick at, “Tell me.”

“You don’t want to know most of it,” I respond.

“I know,” she replies, “but tell me anyway.”

I tell her about my father telling me what would happen. I tell her about the deal--that if I took whatever punishments they brought to me, Astoria wouldn’t. I think she already knows that Astoria’s been my priority all this time. Hermione doesn’t need my looking after her anyway.

She nods slowly, and doesn’t say a word. I do her a favor and spare her the details. I tell her of the torture, but I don’t give details. I don’t tell her about Amycus and Fenrir and worst of all Bellatrix.

I don’t tell her about the dirt. I don’t tell her about how my aunt stole my most vulnerable moment and turned it into a sick joke. I don’t tell her about Pansy, or the cruciatus curse, or wishing I was dead. She doesn’t need to know.

I feel like saying, “I know what you’re feeling right now, and I’d make it go away if I could,” but  _I could’ve, and I didn’t, and I don’t feel anywhere near bad enough about it._

When I finish my adumbrated version, she nods her head, like she’s physically taking in the information and storing it in her head. She doesn’t say much, and I don’t expect her to.

I lean up against the sofa to help myself stand, and I go to the workbench and rummage for a clean piece of clothes I can give her to wrap her arm.

I find two pieces of rag that actually look pretty clean--the house elves must have left them for me. It feels strange to consider that lucky, but I do anyway.

I kneel in front of her, and say as gently as I can, “Can you hand me your arm?”

She takes a deep breath and--this girl is a miracle, I don’t think I would let  _anyone_ touch me for hours, let alone my school rival--shows me her arm.

I clean up the blood around it so no more will get on her clothes. I wrap her arm up with the cloth strip, and say, “Dittany might work, so it doesn’t scar. It depends what curse she used.”

“I couldn’t hear,” says Hermione. “I tried to, but it might have been wordless magic.”

I nod. That explains why I couldn’t hear it either.

“Granger,” I say, just because it doesn’t feel quite right to call her Hermione, “Take this.” I shove the other piece of clean cloth at her, and add, “You’ll feel better if you clean up.”  _It’s even more humiliating,_ I think,  _because someone else is there and she feels like she has to keep it together for longer._

She takes the piece hesitantly. I stand up, pivot, and sit on the sofa. “I’ll sit here until you’re done, really. Just say the word.” She understands what I mean, now.

I become absorbed with counting the cracks in the wall. I’m confident that at least one of them has come from Bellatrix’s spell practice.

“Draco,” says Hermione--it’s the first time she’s called me Draco-- “Did Harry ever show you how to create a Patronus?”

I still stare straight forward, but she comes around the side of the sofa and adds matter-of-factly, “You can look now.”

I still don’t look directly at her, because I’ve never been good at non-antagonistic eye-contact anyway. “He tried to teach me,” I say, “but I never got to corporeal form.”

“Mine’s an otter,” says Hermione, and she smiles a little bit.

“It suits you,” I say. “I’m not sure what I’d be.”

“I bet it’s something graceful and stuck up,” she says. But her expression softens and she adds, “It’s not your fault, you know.” She darts her hand out to cover mine. It was clearly impulsive, because now that it’s there, she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I give her a small smile, but edge my hand out from underneath hers. She retracts it, and I say, “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“You did the right thing,” she says again.

“Don’t tell me that,” I say.  _I wish she would punch me, tell me I was wrong, tell me I was terrible. She did that when I imagined it; it was easier that way._

She can tell I’m getting angry, and I think she assumes it’s at her.

“Listen,” she says, as if she’s been planning this little speech for hours (impossible, considering the relative newness of our circumstance). She stands up and paces back and forth. “If this is what broke you, then whatever came first must have been terrible, too.”

“Letting it happen to you was terrible,” I spit.

“Really, Malfoy?” she says, and now she’s angry, too. “You’re making me comfort you? Because that’s damn well unfair and you know it. I know you’ve suffered,” she pauses, and I know she wants to add something, but she doesn’t-- “to protect me and Greengrass. I know I can’t imagine what it’s been like to sit in this basement alone for the past week and two days--”

 _It’s been that long?_ I don’t know if I expected it to be a year or a day. It feels like both.

“I wouldn’t ask you to imagine it,” I say, attempting not to sound angry.  _Of all people, I shouldn’t be angry with her._

“Draco,” she tries again, “How stupid are you if you think you’re a coward?”

It’s rhetorical, obviously. So I don’t reply.

“The Order will come to get us if they can,” she says, “but they have to consider how likely they are to win, first.”

I nod. I’ve known this, and I’m glad there are people in the Order more intelligent than Harry. Knowing what Harry did to try to protect Sirius Black--I have no doubt that if he had his way, Harry and most of the Order have already died trying to rescue us.

“That being said,” Hermione says, “I’ve had no intention of waiting around until Harry and Ron show up. They’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“Then how will you get out if we don’t have a wand?”

“See,” says Hermione, in that tone of voice that sounds like a lecture “Some of us planned ahead in case we were caught. The fact that we’re separated complicates things though. We’ll need to be quick. What do you know about blood magic?”

“Enough to get by,” I say, “but most of it requires a wand to set up.”

“Fortunately,” she says, “I’ve got one. There’s a few things we need to do,” she says, looking around the basement as if searching for something.

“If you had a wand, why aren’t you already gone?” I interrupt.

“I needed to know where exactly you were first. Once we get out, we can’t come back for a rescue mission, so we’ve got to have all three of us here.”

“How can we get to Astoria?” I ask. “They probably won’t let all three of us be down here together.”

“We just learned that they will,” says Hermione, “under one condition.”

“We can’t do that,” I say. “We--”

“We’d need to prepare first anyway,” says Hermione. “The wand I have is pretty weak. My real one’s broken now.”

“Granger, where’s the damn wand?”

“Do you have anything sharp?” she replies, and damn it, she’s being cryptic and I can’t stand it.

“Granger!” I say. “Explain.”

“We have to--”

“Bellatrix won’t be back for a while. We have time. But you need to explain to me what’s going on.”

“I bewitched a wand,” she says, finally looking at me, and I realize that she’s not being calm and capable--she’s panicking. She just handles panic differently from most of us; she compensates with overactivity.

“I need something sharp to get it out of me,” she says, “It’s sort of like blood magic. But not Dark,” she assures me, and I think it’s funny because the line drawn at Dark magic seems rather arbitrary.

“There might be a nail, somewhere,” I say, not really thinking about the implications--does she plan on carving it out of her? Where is it? How did it get there?

“Get it for me,” she says, and she’s all business again, rolling up the sleeve to the arm that’s just been cut into.

I find her one--it’s a little rusty, but it won’t matter as long as we all get out.

She takes it from me, barely looking up. “Malfoy,” she says, “press your thumb down here, hard.” She’s pointing at a spot on her wrist near where the ‘d’ in ‘Mudblood’ is.

Confused but unwilling to ask too many questions, I do. She takes the nail and jabs it into her wrist with a force that makes me wince involuntarily. She feels me jump back slightly and gives me a look of annoyance.

She drags the nail around her wrist in a circular pattern, and if I’m perfectly honest, it creeps me out more than a little bit. When she’s done, she says, “Let go.”

I squint my eyes in the halflight to see what the symbol is. I recognize it from somewhere but I can’t remember what it is. I look at her to ask, and she says, “It’s a lyre.”

Blood wells up and she plants her thumb in the middle of the symbol. “Flouda piso,” she mutters. It’s an incantation I’ve never heard before.

She grits her teeth and clenches her hand into a fist, and something thoroughly disturbing is happening to her arm. I’m compelled to watch it--the flesh ripples and stretches and starts to snap in the middle.  _Mudblood_ is cut in two. Layer by layer, it peels back, going deeper into first her skin and then her flesh. For a moment, I think I see her bone, but I shudder and try not to think about it.

I suspect she’d give me a harsh look and say something like, “Really, I should be the one grossed out, not you,” if she weren’t otherwise occupied.

She grimaces again, and uses her opposite thumb and forefinger to root around in the damaged flesh, grasping for something. Finally, she finds it, and from her mangled flesh she pulls a wand. I do not bother hiding my shock.

“Fuck,” she says, gasping, “I really was hoping I wouldn’t have to do that.” She looks immediately guilty, and explains to me, “I shouldn’t swear, I always give Ron such a hard time--”

“You’ve earned the right, Granger,” I reply.

She hands me the blood covered wand and says, “Would you mind, uhh--”

“Fixing it for you?” I ask. I imagine she’s a bit short of blood to try the spell herself.

“Right,” she says. “I’m not sure what spell would be best, probably--”

“Episkey’s the only one I know well enough to attempt,” I say. “But it works better for broken bones.”

She shrugs, “I’ll be in the hospital soon anyway, right?”

“Right,” I say, and I try the spell. This time I very much look away as the skin knots itself back together. It doesn’t work very well, but it will do.

She looks at me and her eyes are tired. We’ve been carried away by hope, but we really don’t know what we’re doing.

“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” I say, not quite knowing what possesses me.

Something comes over her, too, and she steps towards me and hugs me more tightly than anyone has in a very long time. She doesn’t ruin it with words.

“We can do this,” she says as she pulls back. She rolls down her sleeve again, and takes the wand back. “I could try to heal you, but--they’ll probably have to rebreak it once we get back.”

A knot hits my stomach. “Do you think you could--remove something?” I ask.

“It depends what,” she says, “And we probably shouldn’t do much until we actually get out. In case--”

“Right,” I say, “stupid of me.”

We stand there like that for a while and I’m not sure what she’s thinking of.

“Why the lyre?” I ask suddenly. I didn’t realize I was still curious until I asked.

She replies. “My name, Hermione--it’s Ancient Greek originally. It’s from the God Hermes, and his symbol is a lyre.”

“You chose the symbol? You could have made it simpler.”

“And then it could have been set off by Lestrange.”

I suspect she just barely avoided adding ‘idiot,’ to the end of her statement.

“We need to find a place for a portal,” she says.

“A blood portal?” The option hadn’t occurred to me; why would it? I didn’t have a wand.

She nods, distracted.

“We need to all be in the same place for that,” I note immediately. “And they’ve probably warded the door so the minute we leave it will be set off; they’ll know, and they’ll come get us.”

“Definitely,” says Hermione, “but they haven’t planned on us being able to unlock it in the first place, right?”

It’s true: we have the advantage of surprise.

“It takes at least half an hour to make a blood portal,” I say. “So that means we have to make it in the basement and get Astoria down here somehow.”

A plan unfolds in my mind.

“Start making it,” I say. “We have to get out of here tonight.”

She doesn’t reply except to look around the room. “Ideally, it’s against stone,” she says, “And we’ll need blood. Probably a lot of it.”

“We’ll have no idea where we’ll turn up,” I say suddenly. “Blood magic is notoriously unpredictable--unless--”

“We’ve made a harbor for ourselves already,” Hermione says, and I wonder how much of the Order’s activities are kept from me. “It’s in the middle of the woods,” she adds. “This type of portal will only work once, so we need to be ready.”

The plan is set.  _Hermione will build the portal. I will take the wand, unlock the basement door, and run as fast as I can to the study. I’ll grab Astoria, and we’ll run back. Hermione will be waiting for us with her palm planted on the portal. As soon as we give her the wand back, we will join hands, shout the incantation, and show up wherever on earth the portal happens to lead to._

“Even if someone follows us,” says Hermione, “the Order is watching that junction in case. They have it warded.”

_She makes it sound simple. So many things could go wrong. I’m not even sure if I can do it; I’m not sure if I can run. I’m not sure I can do anything._

Hermione knits her eyebrows together. “There’re so many things that could go wrong,” she cautions, with worry.

_Good, so it’s not just me._

“It’s a terrible plan,” I say. “All this preparation and this is what you come up with?” It’s meant to be a joke but it comes out more as a jab, and she looks at me unkindly.

“I take it back,” says Hermione.

“Take what back?” I ask.

“I was going to say something nice, back when we were talking about Patronuses. I changed my mind, I bet you’re a slug.”

It brings me back to second year, when Weasley’s wand backfired and he was vomiting slugs for days. A smile creeps on my face.

“Show me how, after this is over,” I say impetuously.

“Isn’t Harry--?”

I shrug. “It’s hard for me I guess. My happy memories are usually the aftermath of something gone wrong, so when I think about them, it’s always bittersweet.”

“Like what?”

“Astoria singing to me,” I say simply. “It’s what I always thought about before, when I was practicing. It got me a bit of a shield, but never the whole thing.”

“It’s hard,” agrees Hermione. “Took me a while, too, and we practiced all through fifth year.”

We get to work. Hermione sets the portal’s location to be on the wall, halfway up the stairs. That way, as soon as Astoria passes the threshold, we’ll be able to leave.

“What’s the spell for us to leave?” I ask.

“Perastapo ut Injurium,” she says, and I have to ask her to repeat it twice before I get it. She takes some of my blood to create the sign of the portal with.

The portal is ready.  _There’s no way this can work._

“This will work,” I say out loud. I go to the workbench and put on my coat.

_Okay, Draco. Time to box up your petty little feelings and put them away for a while. Astoria needs you._

I lean over the workbench and vomit.

Hermione walks over to me and squeezes my shoulder. “Go,” she says.

I feel like I should say something loyal, something dramatic, like “Leave without us if we’re too slow,” but that wouldn’t quite be in earnest. And she couldn’t without the wand anyways.

"If--” I start.

“Too late for ifs,” she says. “Draco. Go.”

Upstairs is entirely silent. I take the wand from her, muster all my courage, and walk to the top step of the basement stairs.

 _Alohomora,_ I say, and the race begins.

There is no room for thought or emotion. Just adrenaline. I make it to the study.  _The wards must have been triggered; they’re already awake, they’re coming for me._

I open the study door.

Astoria is lying up against the window; she is pale but fine.

I grab her hand and see her look of panic as she wakes up.  _Come with me._ She does. She trusts me implicitly.

We run.  _They’re coming; they’re coming; they’re coming._

We make it down to the portal without seeing another human soul.  _Or inhuman soul, depending on how you count Voldemort._

“Perastapo ut Injurium,” and we are gone from the house; no one even tries to stop us. Astoria looks at us bewildered.

I want to stop, to explain,and to tell Hermione that we can’t tell anyone what happened. The enormity of it all comes back to me, and I can’t help feeling that this isn’t over.

“It’s a trick,” I say, before I’m even sure, “It’s got to be.”

Hermione’s face softens and she looks at me. “I forgot, for a moment. I was scared, but it was nice,” she says. I don’t even know what she means. “How anticlimactic,” she adds.

There’s movement in the trees and Hermione casts a shield before she can tell who it is. I grab Astoria’s wrist and pull her behind the two of us. I have nothing to protect us with, but I put up my hands anyway.

Hermione drops her wand.

I take a breath. For a moment, I panic--the smell of wet fur hits me, but my eyes come into focus.

It’s not Fenrir. It’s not a Death Eater at all, but it is a werewolf.

Remus Lupin reaches us and I feel all the energy slip out of me. I don’t remember when I stopped standing, but Hermione is suddenly on the forest floor beside me, and only Astoria is standing. And Remus? He approaches with a soft smile, not getting too close.

I expect him to help us up, to say that we have to go. Instead, he sits on the ground next to us and hands us each a chocolate.

I want to laugh from the absurdity of it. Hermione takes the chocolate from him and shoves it in her mouth.

“Let’s get you home,” he says.

I don’t mention that  _my_ home is where we just came from, and that didn’t work out so well. He Side-Alongs us one at a time back to the Order--he takes Hermione first, then me, then Astoria. By the time he gets back, he looks a little turned around but I imagine it’s far better than how we look.

“We don’t have a healer at the moment,” I hear him say, “ _but Severus is probably the most qualified.”_ He says something more but I’ve no idea what. All I can sense is my good hand locked around Hermione’s; it’s much too tight but I can’t bring myself to let go.

He leads us to a sofa to sit on and we perch there, governed by a silence that seems ludicrous. After all we’ve been through, we still have no words for each other, for the only other people that could understand.

Astoria leans her head on my shoulder. I’m thankful she doesn’t ask if I’m okay. We wait there, and breathe collectively. It is surreal to be safe again. It doesn’t feel safe, it feels poised to fail. It feels like the dreams I had of being back in my Slytherin common room while I was pushed down, bent over--

Snape comes in. I’m thankful he doesn’t look us over; I just point to what’s broken and he fixes it. He gives us a potion each that tastes like nausea in a vial, but we don’t complain. He doesn’t tell us what it’s for, and we don’t ask.

I think about telling him about the collar, just so it would be gone, but I don’t. I can’t let anyone else know about it; I’ll wait till I get a wand.

He doesn’t ask us what has happened; he assumes the worst, I think. He’s been with the Death Eaters long enough to know--long enough to hear of what’s happened in the hideaways, I wonder if he’s ever--

“Can we--”

“What is it, Ms. Granger?” Snape is impatient as ever; it’s refreshing. He doesn’t treat us with unnecessary softness.

“Can we share a room, for a while?”

My heart heaves in relief. I didn’t want to ask; it’s bizarre, I  _hate_ Granger but what I’ve seen won’t let me hate her, and only she could understand.

Snape nods deftly and says, “It’s your choice to see visitors. We’ll see about getting your wands replaced as soon as possible.”

He leaves the room and I feel like I can breathe again.

There are changes of clothes, and there’s a shower. Despite the itchiness of my skin and how uncomfortable I am in general, I let Hermione go first. I’d take longer, anyway.

It all seems very practical, very strange. No semblance of life and death. How odd it is to focus on this activities, when the past week—

Astoria sees me shudder at the thought, and she puts a delicate hand on my shoulder. I let her hug me, but I feel limp. When she sings, I can’t help but crying.

****_Ouch, I have lost myself again_  
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found.  
Yeah, I think that I might break  
****_Lost myself again and I feel unsafe._

She feels my tears fall on her shoulder and she says softly, “Draco. You didn’t break. You’ve never broken.”

I clutch her tighter and can’t bring myself to speak.

“It would take a fool to not be proud of you,” she says, and I want to scream  _No._

Instead I just say, “Don’t let go.”

Harry visits us the next morning, after we say we’re ready.  We’re guarded when he knocks on the door, and stand close to each other.

“I’m sorry you were there so long,” he says, even though it was only two weeks and no one could have expected more him to do anything. He pushes his glasses up and can’t decide which one of us to hug first. He sees me holding Astoria’s hand and so chooses Hermione, and hugs her in a way that is all encompassing. She tears up a bit, but keeps her expression neutral and smiles softly.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

Harry turns to me and holds me so tightly that I don’t even notice if I flinch when he touches my shoulder.

He looks at the two of us hard and long, and says, softly, like an apology, “What did they do to you?”

I take a solid look at Hermione, and she looks at me. There is determination beyond measure in her eyes, and I know. I don’t think about the collar still locked underneath my new change of clothes, my barely healing hand, or the cuts that Snape has healed that left ugly scars on our arms; those can be explained later. Those are trivialities. I think of everything, a box in the back corner of my mind that I cannot bring myself to open.

“They didn’t have time for us,” I say, and my expression is genuine. “With the war, and all.”

“What did they do?” Harry’s voice is even softer. He takes my hand gently in his and I think he might see through me.

“Nothing, love,” I say, “Nothing at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not write a sequel. I definitely have some ideas for it.  
> Note on the title: It's a reference to the Deathly Hallows. In this version, I saw the three characters Astoria, Draco, and Hermione as human embodiments of the hallows. 
> 
> Hermione is powerful and pragmatic--elder wand. Astoria is frail and exists mostly in Draco's memory; she's like a hollowed out version of a real person--that's the resurrection stone. And Draco? His emotions are conflicted, and he goes between wanting death and wanting to live. He in the end accepts where he's at, therefore--the invisibility cloak. 
> 
> He's not supposed to be the symbol of morality or lack thereof. He simply exists and does the best he can with what he's given.  
> And yes, I loved the imagery of him playing cello. 
> 
> That is all.  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
